I'll Stand By You
by CrystalBrooke
Summary: PaulxOC. I didn't want to think about the reason I was here, in hospital. It hurt too much. Instead, I focussed on the one thing that made the pain recede just a little. I barely knew him, but he was the one thing that gave me hope. Paul.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! I may stand corrected, but I don't think anyone has attempted an imprinting story like this. I hope you like it! lurrve xxxx ;)**

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_Chapter One_

I lay immobile in the uncomfortable hospital bed, staring straight ahead of me, not seeing anything at all. I wanted to remain stationary. I was, however, unable to keep completely still; my chest moved as I breathed, and my eyelids blinked. Despite these involuntary movements, I was motionless.

I tried not to think. I wanted my mind to escape into a fuzzy cloud void of logic and clarity, where nothing was clear, and nothing made sense. I hoped to distract myself from the shocking, harsh, unambiguous reality of what had happened to me.

But I couldn't escape it. I was unable to forget it. How could I? How could I think of something trivial? How could I ever be sufficiently distracted? What could possibly distract me from this pain, this regret? They were both part of me now, and couldn't be ignored.

I felt regret, for not trusting my instincts, for not _thinking_. I didn't think, not really. I just assumed everything would be OK. Nothing would happen. Everyone would be fine. Yeah, sure, it was a risk, to climb into a car with a driver who was drunk, along with your intoxicated friends, who didn't put their seatbelts on.

_But nothing would happen to me or my friends. Car crashes happened to other people. Tragedies like this befell the people on the news, but there was no way anything like that would ever happen to us. We would be fine. _

How foolish we were. How unbelievably stupid. What was I thinking? I was _sober_! I knew so much better! I knew it wasn't safe! I can only blame myself for what happened. No one forced me into that car. I could have refused. I could have stopped them from driving it, and convinced them all to call a cab. But I didn't. I blindly hoped everything would be OK, and now look at what has happened.

My eyes scanned the sterile white room around me. I hadn't been in a hospital since my birth. I had never broken my arm, or my legs or anything like that. I was overwhelmed with a crazy desire to laugh. I wish I had broken my legs. Anything else other than reality. Anything.

I didn't want to think about that. I didn't want to think about the reason I was here. It hurt too much - it made it painful to breathe. It made my head hurt.

I focussed on the one thing that made the pain recede just a little. The one thing I could think about that wouldn't trigger the overwhelming regret. The one thing that gave me hope.

Paul.

I barely knew him. I didn't even know his last name. I would probably never see him again. Because he wouldn't want me, now. No one would want me, ever. Not when I was like this.

But just thinking about the conversation we had had, made me feel a little better. A little calmer. It numbed the pain, just a little. It was better than nothing, and it was all I had. For maybe the millionth time since the accident, I ran over that conversation in my head again…

* * *

"Oh, sorry!" I apologised. I had turned around too quickly and bumped into the person directly behind me.

"Watch it," he snapped, without looking at me. My patience disappeared. I had been at the bonfire for an hour, watching my friends get steadily drunker, refusing to join them, and I wasn't having a very good evening. I felt like I was babysitting without getting paid. The last thing I felt like putting up with was this half naked idiot in my face getting offended because I had accidentally bumped into him. Why the hell wasn't he wearing a shirt, anyway, I thought in annoyance. The night air wasn't _that_ warm.

"I said sorry, didn't I?" I snapped back, as he pushed past me. "What do you want, a freaking letter of apology?"

He rounded on me, glaring. His mouth opened, no doubt to say something smart, but his expression changed completely the second his eyes locked onto mine. He stared at me in shock. I raised my eyebrows. He was looking at me as though he recognised me, even though I had never seen him before in my life. He continued to gaze at me, and I frowned.

"Right, then," I said, and turned away from him. That was strange. I wondered what I had done for him to look at me like that. I hoped there wasn't anything on my face.

I squeaked in shock when suddenly, a warm hand seized my arm. The guy pulled me towards him and held my chin, forcing me to look up into his face. His hands were gentle, and he hadn't hurt me - I was more surprised than anything. In fact, I was in complete and utter shock. I stared at him in alarm. His expression did not frighten me; he looked strangely overjoyed, and his eyes traced over every inch of my face. They appeared to be completely rapt, and I didn't understand it.

We gazed at each other for an immeasurable moment. It slowly began to dawn on me how gorgeous this guy was, and how I never got enough opportunities to gaze directly into a gorgeous guy's face. My eyes drank him in appreciatively, before I came back to earth. I should not really be ogling this guy. I didn't know him at all, and he had suddenly just grabbed me and was now staring at me. That wasn't normal behaviour, surely?

"Excuse me," I mumbled, my jaw slightly restricted from moving due to his scorching hot fingers holding my chin, "but would you mind letting go of me?"

He seemed to realise what he was doing for the first time, and his eyes widened.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed. He let me go, but he didn't move away from me. I eyed him uncertainly, bemused by his behaviour. He gazed back, the corners of his mouth now turning up into a smile. I found myself ogling him again, and forced myself to stop.

"What's your name?" he asked me suddenly.

"Leona." I felt compelled to answer him.

"Paul," he grinned, and held out his hand to me. I shook it, still completely bewildered by this exchange. But I found myself unwilling to walk away from him. He was fascinating me.

"Hi, Paul," I said, smiling at him shyly. There was a short pause, and he continued to gaze at me. "Was there any particular reason you stopped me, or…?" I trailed off, waiting for him to answer.

"There were a couple of reasons," he said, continuing to grin. "The main one being that you stunned the eyes off me the minute I saw you."

I blushed furiously, not expecting that at all. I rolled my eyes, trying to cover it up. "If that was supposed to be a chat up line, it was supremely awful," I said, laughing. He laughed too, a deep, gravelly sound.

I stared at him as he laughed, thinking the whole situation to be completely surreal. Guys didn't randomly grab hold of me and then proceed to chat me up every day. This was definitely a first, a guy this hot being interested in me. I wasn't much to look at; I was small, scrawny, pale skinned, curly mahogany hair piled on top of my head, my brown eyes hidden behind black-framed glasses. Guys wanted my best friend, Georgia, with her blonde hair and long legs and perfect eyesight.

"So I'll pick you up at noon, then?" he asked, grinning widely at me.

"What?"

"Noon. Tomorrow. You and me. Lunch."

I stared at him. "Are you serious?" I asked, before I could stop myself. Damn. I should have said something witty instead.

"I'm deadly serious. I'll be devastated if you turn me down, Leona." I jumped as he said my name. Hearing it spoken through his rough, deep voice sent unexplainable shivers through me.

"OK," I just about managed to choke out. Maybe I did get drunk after all, and this was just an hallucination. This wasn't really happening, was it?

"Excellent," he said. I gave him directions to my house when he asked, still not quite believing this was happening to me. Because things like this usually never happened to me. I had fully expected to remain boyfriend-less forever. Georgia was not going to believe her ears.

"Paul! Would you hurry up, man?!" There was a shout from across the beach, and we both looked over to see another half naked guy holding out his arms exasperatedly. How were they not freezing? The hoodie I was wearing was not enough to stop the chills that were beginning to seep through it. Paul sighed.

"I have to go," he said, looking as though he really didn't want to. I must have misread it though. He couldn't be _that_ interested in me. "Tomorrow," he said, grinning at me meaningfully. "I'm looking forward to it already."

I nodded helplessly, transfixed by the intensity of his eyes. No one had ever looked at me like that before. He brushed a lock of curly hair off my cheek, and added it to the mass of hair behind my ear. I swear I had too much hair; it was the bane of my existence. My skin burned under his casual touch.

I watched him walk away and join his friend, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw him look back at me.

* * *

I briefly thought of what happened after that, trying not to think about it _too_ much. It was basically me gushing about Paul to a totally smashed Georgia, who I doubt even heard me, and then spending the rest of the bonfire watching everyone get drunker still, and daydreaming about Paul. He had been too good to be true.

And then I made the very bad decision to get into the car with Georgia driving. She told me she was fine, and hadn't really had that many. I knew better, but I didn't argue. I had no other way home. That wasn't the case. I should have thought. I could have gotten a taxi. I could have called my mom to collect me. But no. I got into the car, along with Darren and Julie, who were also completely wasted.

And now Darren was dead. Georgia was in a critical condition. Julie had managed to escape with a couple of broken ribs. She had been the luckiest out of the four of us. She would recover in a few weeks, maybe months. Darren couldn't. I couldn't. I was terrified for Georgia. And it hurt.

It hurt to breathe again. I had to stop dwelling on the crash. It was too overwhelming. It was too painful, and I didn't want to have another panic attack. Think of Paul, think of Paul.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was one. My heart twisted with pain. What must Paul have thought, when he arrived at my house at noon, to find that I wasn't there? Would he have thought I had given him the wrong address, maybe? That I stood him up, because I wasn't interested? Did he even know about the crash? And if he did?

I tried to puncture the hope. He wouldn't come visit me. Maybe he had been interested in me for a while, but like I said before, he wouldn't want me now. No one would want me now.

I listened to the noises around me. The clock ticking. My heart monitor beeping. Faint noises coming from other rooms. I was alone. I had convinced my parents to go home and get some sleep. They were heartbroken, and I hated it. I couldn't handle them in the same room as me, worrying about me, when I knew I was the one to blame for their suffering.

Suddenly, I could hear a load of shouting disrupting the quiet. I frowned, extremely grateful though for the distraction. Maybe it was a crazy patient. Or someone threatening to sue. I tried to imagine some kind of drama, that would take me away from my current situation.

To my surprise, I heard the shouting getting closer. I listened intently, doing my best to make out what they were saying.

"WHERE IS SHE? WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?"

"Sir, if you'll calm down and stop shouting -"

"DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN! JUST TELL ME WHICH BLOODY ROOM SHE'S IN!"

"As I've said before, you aren't her family so you can't -"

"LEONA! LEONA!"

I gasped, my heart speeding up. The monitor struggled to keep up with it. That wasn't Paul, was it? No way. But who else would be calling my name like that?

"Paul?" I said aloud. It wasn't even loud enough to carry around my room, but the shouting stopped immediately, and I could hear footsteps stomping closer and closer to my room. My head was swirling. It couldn't be Paul. He can't have heard me just then. It was all an elaborate dream. It couldn't be reality.

My door crashed open, and my eyes widened as Paul stormed in. He was breathing heavily, the tendons in his neck standing out. His hands were clenched into tight fists; they were shaking violently, and he looked as though he was about to explode. The moment he saw me though, all his anger just seemed to fade away to nothing, and he slumped, his eyes horrified.

"Leona," he said, his voice saturated with pain. My heart twisted excruciatingly again. I knew he could see me, lying so frail and vulnerable on the hospital bed, the left side of my face bandaged. I must have looked a complete mess. It hurt me, because it hurt him.

A female nurse and a burly bodyguard bustled through the door after him.

"Sir, you need to leave immediately," she ordered him, and the bodyguard flexed his muscles. They didn't look that threatening though, compared with Paul's. He wasn't wearing a shirt again. He looked a little inappropriate, but I didn't care.

"No, let him stay," I said.

"I'm not going anywhere," Paul growled at the same time. The nurse shot me a stern look, and I glared back at her.

"Let him stay," I said again. She looked as though she was trying not to roll her eyes with extreme difficulty, but she left, bringing the bodyguard with her. I turned my attention back to Paul, the minute they had gone. He was gazing at me, his eyes an anthology of too many emotions.

I smiled weakly at him. "Sorry I missed our lunch," I said, trying to sound light-hearted, but it fell flat. I sounded desolate; exactly how I felt. Once Paul found out, he was going to leave and never come back. He wasn't going to want me. He shouldn't. Who would?

In three quick strides, he was over at my side and sat in the chair next to my bed, the one my mother had claimed ownership of, and grasped my hand in his, holding it gently. It was so warm. It felt hugely comforting.

"I didn't think you were going to visit me at all," I told him, now desperate to distract _him_, rather than me. He looked just like I felt, only ten times worse. His expression was breaking my heart, and I couldn't stand it.

"Why not?" he demanded, looking shocked at the very thought.

"I don't know…" I shrugged. "You barely know me. I barely know you. You don't have to be here."

His eyes were intense, and mine were trapped within his gaze. "Yes, I do have to be here. And I will be here."

I gazed at him sadly. I wanted to believe him. But I didn't know how. He still had no clue of what was wrong with me. There was no way he would stand by me through this; I wasn't worth the effort. And it was funny, because I barely knew him, but the thought of never seeing him again made the crushing pain in my chest a whole lot worse.

My eyes began to fill up with tears. I hadn't cried yet. It was about time. I didn't cry when I found out about Darren, or Georgia. I didn't cry when the doctors told me what had happened to me. It was like I had been stuck in my own numb bubble. It seemed that Paul had wore all those defences down, and I suddenly couldn't stop my tears.

"Oh, no, Leona, don't cry," he said, stood up and pulled me into a gentle hug. I clung to him, burying my head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his bare skin. He had a very earthy, musky scent. It calmed me.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, feeling a little embarrassed for breaking down in front of him.

"It's OK," he said in a hushed voice. "You're going to be fine."

I had to tell him. I couldn't keep it from him. He had to know.

"No, I'm not," I said. He pulled away from me and held my chin in his hand, just like the way he did the first time we met, his eyes blazing.

"Yes, you are, Leona. You are going to be OK," he said fiercely. He was beginning to look scared by the dead look in my eyes. I was trying to shut my feelings off again, so that maybe it wouldn't hurt as much when he walked out of the door.

"I'm not, Paul," I said, a little louder this time, so maybe it would sink in.

"Leona," he said, and he was starting to sound angry. "Do not start any crap with me. You are not giving up. You are fighting, because you are staying on this earth with me. You are going to walk out of this hospital, and you will be fine."

I laughed wryly, which seemed to scare him even more.

"I'm not walking out of this hospital, Paul. I broke my spine. I'm paralysed from the waist down."


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow. Thank you so much for the amazing feedback - your reviews were unreal. Yeah, I know, the disabled thing sucks, but I figured it would make a more original story - no one wants to hear the same plotlines over and over again. Unfortunately, I have no plans for her suddenly springing to her feet, either. Sorry. :( If anyone is reading this, and they haven't read Breaking Dawn yet (Are. You. Insane?), then do NOT read the rest of this author's note. Seriously, I'm not wrecking the book for anyone, so just skip down and start the chapter, where Leona is waiting patiently for your sympathies. Go on. Now, if you have read it, you'll know that Paul imprinted on Jacob's sister, but I've decided not to change this story at all, and keep it the way it is. I hope no one minds. :) Enjoy. Lurrrve. Thanks again for the amazin' reviews!! **

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_Chapter Two_

"What?" he said sharply. The anger and fierceness hadn't yet left his tone. It hadn't sunk in.

"You heard me," I said, as calmly as I could. And then I waited, for the information to sink into his brain. It still hadn't fully sunk into my brain yet. I would never walk again. I would never stand up again. There was so much that I had taken for granted, and they were all lost to me now; running, swimming, dancing, driving… all lost.

There was so much I hadn't experienced, and never would be able to experience. I was going to be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.

And that's why I was waiting for Paul to leave. He deserved a girlfriend with legs that worked. I was useless. I was crippled, disabled, handicapped - whatever label you wanted to attach to me. Sooner or later, he would realise this too, and he would leave. I just wanted that time to be sooner, instead of dragging out. Maybe then it would hurt a little less.

I watched his expression change. It went from complete shock, to horror, to agony, and finally returned to anger. His eyes still retained the agony. I was upset too. He didn't have to care so much about me. He didn't have to get this involved. He could still walk away, and so he should.

He was silent for a long time. He just gazed at me. He opened his mouth a few times, looking as though he was on the verge of speaking, but the words never made it out. I stared back at him sadly, waiting for him to admit that he couldn't handle this anymore. I was broken, and couldn't be fixed. He deserved someone perfect.

"And there's no way…?" he asked eventually, trailing off. His tone was so harsh. Was he angry at me, for being so stupid and irresponsible? I cringed away from this idea. I knew I had been an idiot, and that this was only what I deserved for not thinking first, but I didn't want Paul to tell me these things. It would make them facts, make them even truer.

"No," I said, dully. "The damage is irreversible."

I pulled myself out of his grip and lay back into my pillows, eyeing the wall blankly again. Saying it out loud depressed me, and dragged me towards the black hole I was struggling so desperately not to fall into. I was trying not to drown in my depression.

I wondered morbidly if I would have been better off if I had died in the crash. I never would be fully alive now, after all. There were so many things that were restricted to me. Would living out the rest of my life really be worth it?

I chided myself, for thinking like that. I didn't want to die. My parents didn't want me to die. And it seemed that Paul didn't want me to die, either. I had things to live for. And they would be worth it.

It was strange, how I barely knew Paul for less than probably a whole hour, and already he was worth living for. Strange.

I could feel his gaze on my face. He never stopped watching me, did he? I wondered if he was pitying me, feeling sorry for the poor little crippled girl. I didn't want him, or anyone else, to feel sorry for me. I didn't think I'd be able to deal with the sympathetic and pitying gazes in my direction. I didn't need their condolences; I was already feeling pretty sorry for myself. But I deserved it. This was what I got for being stupid and irresponsible, and for not considering my safety, or anyone else's.

"I'm really sorry," he said, sounding it. So he was feeling sorry for me. I didn't answer him, and continued to stare desolately at the wall.

He stood up suddenly, and kicked the chair he had been sitting on. It shot across the floor and hit the wall with a resounding crash. I jumped at the noise.

"They're going to throw you out if you don't calm down," I told him. Despite the anger I could feel radiating off him in waves, I didn't feel scared of him.

"I'd like to see them try," he growled, and started to pace, his hands balling up into fists. He looked like he wanted to rant and rave, and I decided to give him permission.

"What are you thinking?" I asked him quietly. He growled again, before launching into his rant.

"Why did this happen?" he demanded, of no one in particular. "Why would God let this happen? Why did He make you my imprint, and then try and take you away from me? And damage you beyond repair in the process? Why would He do that? How could He?" He looked like he was trying to restrain himself from kicking something again with difficulty.

I didn't understand. I didn't understand why he was so angry, why I had become his burden to bear. I didn't understand what he had meant by 'imprint'. My head hurt. I wanted to ask questions, but I had no energy. I wanted to sleep, and black out for a while.

"Paul, would you do me a favour?" I asked him, closing my eyes. I heard his footsteps cease. He had stopped pacing.

"Anything," he said.

"Will you find out how Georgia is for me? She's my friend, she was in the crash too? Her name is Georgia Rhys."

"I'll be right back." I heard him leave the room quickly, and then break out into a run in the corridor. I wiped away the dried tears on my cheek. What I wanted now was to sink into a dreamless oblivion for a couple of hours.

I heard Paul before I saw him. I opened my eyes when the sound of his footsteps racing up the hall reached my ears. And then he was there in the doorway, his muscled chest heaving slightly from the running. He was so gorgeous, and it was such a waste that he had no one to ogle him, because I could no longer do it. It felt like another life, where I had been so carefree that I was able to appreciate gorgeous guys. Those guys had never wanted me before, and they weren't going to want the girl in the wheelchair. No would want me. Not even Paul.

"They said she's stable now," he said. "If she makes it through the night, than there's a good chance she'll be OK."

"What's exactly wrong with her?" I asked, almost too scared to hear the answer. This was my friend he was talking about. It could be a line for an episode in a medical drama on TV.

"Internal injuries. One of her lungs collapsed," he answered, his mouth twisting a little. He no more liked saying it than I liked hearing it. I felt so afraid that she could die. I'd been friends with her since I was little. We'd lived next door for years. She gave me a lift to school every day.

My heart twisted in pain again. I had never learned to drive, as a result of that. Georgia had always given me a lift, and I had never felt an overwhelming desire to learn myself and buy my own car. But I should have. If I had been able to drive, I could have driven Georgia and Darren and Julie home, and we'd all be fine. Darren wouldn't be dead. Georgia and Julie wouldn't be badly injured. I wouldn't be unable to move my legs.

I looked down at them, the two motionless limbs hidden by my bedcovers. They might as well have been someone else's legs. I couldn't move them, I had no control over them. My brain could still remember how to command them, how to wiggle one of my toes, but no matter how hard I tried to make them move, nothing would happen. I couldn't feel them.

A searing pain crashed through my head, and I winced. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to forget.

Paul was suddenly _there_; his face was right next to mine, his fingers anxiously pushing the hair off my forehead.

"What's wrong?" he asked fretfully, his grey eyes searching mine.

"Nothing," I said, not really wanting to waste his time with the list of things that were wrong with me. He raised his eyebrows sceptically. He didn't question me further though, and I was grateful. His eyes examined every inch of my face, just like he had done that first time, and I watched his forehead crease as he eyed the bandage plastered across my left cheek.

"What happened to your cheek?" he asked me.

"It got cut. I needed stitches," I informed him, sighing wearily. There were bandages on my arms, and my stomach, and my back, and my legs, but I didn't want to point them all out too. He already looked sickened by the one on my face. I felt my eyes fill up with tears again, and I closed them, hiding it from him. He was sickened by me. I was no longer what he had wanted, if he had even wanted me at all. I was damaged.

So why hadn't he left yet? Why was he still here? Was he trying to torture me further, by letting me hope that he would stay, despite what had happened to me? If he just left now and never came back, then I would be able to get over it sooner. Prolonging it would just make everything a lot worse.

"Leona?" Paul's voice spoke my name softly. I tried to open my eyes, but they refused. I could feel myself slipping into unconsciousness, and I welcomed it. I wanted to sleep. I just prayed I wouldn't dream. Dream of things that were now impossible for me.

"Yes?" I breathed, too tired to project my voice. He would be able to hear me anyway, I was sure of it.

"Do you want me to stay?"

I paused before I answered. I wanted to tell him that if he didn't want to stay, he didn't have to. That he didn't have to feel obliged. But I didn't want to listen to him leave. I honestly didn't want him to go, which left me with only one answer.

"Yes." He didn't reply, but I felt his warm hand envelope mine again, and I sank quickly into oblivion.

* * *

**Paul's POV**

I felt so helpless.

I listened to her breathing slow, as she drifted asleep. Her hand felt so cold and limp and lifeless inside of mine, and it scared me. Her face relaxed, but it was so pale, drained of blood, and she almost looked dead. That thought scared me even more. What if she hadn't have survived that car crash? What would I have done then? I finally found my soul mate, my other half, but what if she had died before we had any type of chance to be together?

I shuddered.

I leaned forward and rested my head on my arm, the one holding Leona's hand. My eyes never left her face. This was not how I had planned to spend the day. I had pictured us having lunch, having fun, getting to know each other better. And now I was sitting in hospital, holding her hand, knowing she would never recover.

Paralysed. It was a word I knew, a word that everyone knew, a word the majority of people had no concept of. Other people were paralysed in car crashes. It was horrible, it was irreversible, it was terrifying, and I had never, ever expected it to happen to anyone I knew. Especially not my imprint. Not her. Not Leona.

It wasn't fair. Jared had Kim, and Quil had Claire, and they had all been given the chance to be happy, without any kind of tragedies to worry about. Sam and Emily were different; Emily had been injured, and they were both unable to fully get over it. I had never imagined I would be in a similar situation. Leona and I were never going to fully recover from the fact that she wouldn't be able to walk.

It wasn't fair. Leona hadn't deserved this. On the beach, she had been so sweet, so innocent. If I had had any idea this was going to happen, I would not have walked away from her. I hadn't wanted to in the first place. I had wanted to stay with her for the rest of the evening. I should have. I should have ignored the fact that Sam had requested a meeting - I should have stayed with her!

I remembered arriving at her house, and finding no one home. I had been incredibly confused. I had waited and waited, thinking that maybe she was held up somewhere, because there was no way the Leona I had met would have given me the wrong address. In desperation, I had crossed over to the neighbours' house, only for them to tell me that she had been in a car crash, and she was in hospital. And I had run the whole way there.

I hadn't meant to lose my temper with the nurses. But they wouldn't tell me anything, not even if she was OK. I had had to hold on to my self control with everything that I had. And then I had heard her voice, so faint, but I knew it was hers, and I followed it.

Nothing could have prepared me for the shock, seeing her lying there, so frail looking. I couldn't stand it. She didn't look like my Leona. She looked like a broken corpse. Nothing had ever scared me more.

At least she had wanted me to stay. I hadn't realised that I had been afraid that she would try and push me away until she admitted she wanted me to stay. But I could already tell she was expecting me to walk away from this. Little did she know how much I couldn't. But I liked to think that even if she wasn't my imprint, I would still help her through this. I liked to think that I was enough of a human being to do that. But because she was my imprint, I was going to do everything in my power to help her recover. She wasn't getting rid of me.

But I was painfully reminded that she would never fully recover. I couldn't have imaginings of us walking hand in hand together… instead, they were of me pushing her wheelchair.

I clenched my empty fist. This wasn't fair. This just was not fair.


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow. The reviews continue to be amazing. Thanks so much! Well, my arm has officially been twisted. There will be a lovely happy ever after to this story, at the request of my very best friend, and you guys. But what's a happy ever after without the drama beforehand...? Hahaha. Enjoy! xxx lurrrve xxx**

* * *

_Chapter Three_

I was woken by the sound of half-whispered voices.

"Who in the name of arse are you?"

I recognised my dad's voice. My parents must have returned. I hoped they had managed to sleep - they were having a hard enough time as it was at the moment. Their only child, bound to a wheelchair. Definitely not something they had wanted.

I racked my mind for a second, wondering who he was talking to. And then I registered the warm hand still clasped around mine. Paul must still be here. He hadn't left yet? I had no idea how long I had slept. It didn't seem like he had moved at all. I wanted to open my eyes and explain things, but they wouldn't cooperate. They were glued shut.

"Oh! I'm, er, Paul. Nice to meet you. I'm, uh, a friend of Leona's." He sounded awkward and unprepared. Maybe he hadn't anticipated my parents showing up. I wondered if he had even spared them a thought. It seemed like he had absolutely nothing better to do than stay here and hold my hand. I didn't know why he felt he had to, but I was already beginning to depend on that comforting hand. It was dangerous. What if he left now?

"I've never heard of_ you_ before," my mother said snootily. Oh, great. She'd probably think he was my secret boyfriend now. But would she really give me grief over it? Didn't we have bigger things to be worrying about?

"Well, I only met her yesterday," Paul explained. His grip on my hand tightened at his words. Yesterday… I can't have slept for that long then. Only a few hours at the most. If yesterday was still the day I met Paul, then today was still the day I woke up paralysed…

"Well, that's very nice of you to come visit her," my dad said. He sighed, and I heard him take the seat next to my bed, opposite Paul. He took my other hand; his was so cold compared to Paul's. He didn't seem to have any more questions for Paul, and I felt oddly grateful for it. My dad always took everything in his stride; nothing ever fazed him. My disability had been the only exception. I had never seen his calm demeanour so completely worn away.

I didn't like remembering that. Yet another person tortured over this accident, the one I had caused. I cursed myself for the millionth time. I could have stopped this from happening. No one would have to be here, if I had just _thought_. I should not have gotten into that car, or let Georgia drive.

I couldn't, I couldn't keep dwelling on it. It was done. It had happened. Regretting was not going to reverse this. It was not going to make me feel better. Yet, I couldn't seem to stop torturing myself. It was the only thing I knew how to do.

Because I didn't know what I was supposed to do, now. I was only sixteen. My life hadn't really begun, yet. There hadn't been any significant event in my life that stood out to me. I'd always led a fairly normal existence; just under the radar. I wasn't big on spotlights. I'd always been quite invisible at school, something I was used to. It had never bothered me. I had my friends, I had my family. I didn't really need anything else.

The thought of going back to school left a bad taste in my mouth. I would have my very own spotlight then. The only person in the whole school who was in a wheelchair. I wasn't sure if my school was even wheelchair accessible. Everyone would have to make exceptions for me. I would be trouble, a hassle. I would be in the way. I didn't want to go back to school at all. It wouldn't be worth it. The staring, horrified eyes. The gossip. The pity.

I refused to think about that anymore. If anything else was going to depress me further, it was the thought of school. For a miserable second, I wondered how many people now knew about Darren. He'd always been so much fun, and he'd talk to anyone from any clique. And he'd been so talented at writing; he had a way of putting words together that could make you laugh out loud or sob for hours. I'd been lucky to know him. He was Georgia's ex-boyfriend, but they'd broken up on good terms, and I'd always counted him as one of my really good friends. I couldn't believe he was dead.

I squeezed my eyelids tightly, not wanting to open them, ever. I couldn't think of anything that didn't sink me further into my depression, my black hole.

My left hand was squeezed suddenly, the hand being held by Paul. I was suddenly aware of eyes on my face, eyes that could only be his. My parents were having a whispered conversation on my other side, that I wasn't hearing. Something to do with doctors, treatments, recovery. Medical garbage. I didn't want to hear some harebrained scheme they were formulating to try and make me well again. Paralysed was paralysed. This was real life. They could do all they could do, but I wasn't jumping up anytime soon. All it would result in is dashed hopes and tears.

I was still for a moment, feeling a little comforted under his gaze. I gently squeezed his hand back, wanting to reassure him that I was OK. A second passed, and then his other hand covered the top of mine, holding my small hand in between the two of his large, burning ones.

* * *

I don't know how long I lay there, in between sleep and consciousness. I drifted, sometimes listening to conversations between my parents, sometimes falling into vivid dreams that I couldn't understand. I didn't hear Paul's voice again, so my parents mustn't have spoken to him again. He didn't move his hands away at any point, and I felt comforted under his watchful gaze.

I opened my eyes when I heard Georgia's name being mentioned. The first person I saw was Paul. He was sitting back in the chair he had kicked away earlier. His head was resting on his arms, which were stretched in front of him, my hand still clasped gently in both of his. His eyes lit up when he saw me awake, and a smile flashed across his face.

"Georgia?" I asked him, and my parents, who were opposite him, fell silent at the sound of my voice. My mother hurried over to my side, leaning around my dad.

"She's OK, honey. It looks like she's going to make a full recovery. She woke up earlier on, something the doctors didn't expect yet," she said in a soothing voice. I nodded, the pain in my chest loosening a little. That was definitely good news. I couldn't imagine how much worse things would get if Georgia died too. I had already lost so much. At least I wasn't losing Georgia too over mistakes I had made.

I studied my mother properly for the first time. I hadn't been able to look her in the eye. How many times had I nodded and assured her of my knowledge, when she had lectured me on safety? _Don__'__t get into cars with strangers. Don__'__t walk home alone at night. Don__'__t drink and drive. Don__'__t ever get into a car with a drunken driver._

I was ashamed of myself, and I couldn't face her. She had trusted me not to do anything stupid like that. And what had I done? I had been irresponsible, and now I was in hospital.

I could tell immediately she hadn't gotten much sleep. There were dark purple shadows under her usually sparkling eyes. Her face had lost its vitality. She looked like another version of me. We didn't have any hope that I could recover, and we were just imagining the difficult future ahead of me. I wished fervently that there was someway that I could take everyone's depression, and wallow in the pity without dragging them all down with me.

"Are you OK?" I asked her, my throat a little hoarse from sleep.

"Don't worry about me," she said, brushing my hair back from my forehead, fussing a little with my bedcovers. "Just concentrate on getting better. We're getting the best doctor in this hospital for an evaluation. I'm not sentencing you to that wheelchair yet."

Oh, so I was wrong. She hadn't given up hope yet. She was in denial. She was going to fight for a loophole. I wondered if I was the only one who had accepted it fully yet. The best doctor in the whole world couldn't just snap his fingers and make my permanently numb legs move.

I looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes again. Hope was such a dangerous emotion. I couldn't fall victim to it too. If I got my hopes up, I'd only have further to fall.

I glanced over at my dad, who winked lazily at me. He was slumped in his chair, also looking exhausted, his hand still loosely wrapped around my right one. I shot him a small smile. They weren't sleeping. Did they think that I wouldn't notice? Now I was worrying about them, too. They needed to sleep. It wasn't like I was going anywhere. I'd still be here when they woke up.

I glanced over at the window. It was dark outside. My eyes wandered to the clock on the wall. Eleven. I'd slept for a long time, and I wasn't sure if I'd fall asleep again. I finally looked back at Paul, who had been here all day. He didn't look too tired, but that could just be a front. I wondered if he had even gone to get anything to eat at all.

"Are _you _OK?" I asked him.

He smiled a little. "I've been better. But I'm fine."

"Have you been here all day?"

"Yep. Haven't moved."

"Aren't you hungry, or tired?"

"I'm fine."

"Paul…" I began to protest, not liking the idea of him depriving himself of food and sleep just to sit there and hold my hand. When I said I wanted him to stay with me, I didn't mean I wanted him to go to extremes. He was allowed to eat and sleep.

"Leona, I'm fine," he said, interrupting me before I could get started.

I glared at him. "Go and get something to eat."

"No, I'm good, seriously."

"Paul, if you don't go away and eat, then I'm going to get you thrown out permanently."

He frowned at me for a second, and I smirked a little. He stuck his tongue out at me.

"Fine. I'll be right back." He stood up and let go of my hand reluctantly. He left, glancing at me before closing the door on his way out. My mother, who had been watching us closely the whole time, sniffed.

"Leona, do you not think you should have told us about _him _before now?"

I sighed. "I only met him yesterday. It's not a big deal."

"He was sitting there when we got here, and he didn't move an inch for the rest of the day. He didn't look away from your face. It didn't _look_ like you'd only met him yesterday," Mom nagged. I shot a pleading glance at my dad, who immediately intervened.

"Amanda, lay off them. If Leona says she met him yesterday, then that's what happened. I think he's definitely a respectable young man, especially for staying here with her when they barely know each other. How many other of her school friends have visited her so far?"

I made a face. Neither Suzanne or Harvey had visited me at all. They had taken a different car home from the party, one with a sober driver. I knew Suzanne through Georgia, but we spoke everyday and I liked to think we were close friends. Harvey was my best guy friend. He was really quiet and shy, and he was always getting teased by the jocks over his glasses and the fact he loved Chemistry. I was so overprotective over him, it was crazy. He was so sweet. Why hadn't he come to see me? I'd get over Suzanne not being here - she was probably wherever Georgia was - but Harvey? That hurt.

"Well, yes, I suppose," Mom said, wringing her hands together, worrying. "But he wasn't wearing a _shirt_."

I laughed in spite of myself. Oh, the horror of a shirtless Paul. My parents looked over at me at the sound of my laughter, smiling reluctantly themselves. I wonder if they had expected me to be laughing so soon. I mean, it sure wasn't a laugh riot around here. Were we supposed to be sitting around, sinking in our depressions, terrified to crack a smile because it was _wrong_? Wrong to show amusement when I was paralysed?

I didn't want anyone to be unhappy. I didn't want to be unhappy. I just wanted to get through one second at a time, and try to ignore the clenched fist full of hurt in my stomach.

Mom didn't object to Paul any further. She gazed at me for a moment, and then sat on a second seat next to Dad. I felt like I was on display. All anyone ever did was sit around me, gawping. I almost felt compelled to do something entertaining. They just sat around… waiting for me to recover? Keeping me company? I didn't know.

I really wanted to go home. Staring at the same four walls had already become head wrecking. All the hospital sounds around me… they only just reminded why I was here, how I got here… I wanted to be in my own room. But then again, I wasn't sure I completely wanted to be in there ever again. I would be in a wheelchair. I used to dance around my room, singing. I couldn't do that anymore, and I wouldn't ever be able to again. How depressing.

I stared straight ahead of me again. It was only a minute later when I realised I was waiting for Paul to come back. That realisation shocked me a little. Had I really begun to depend on him that much? Oh… it was dangerous. He could snap one day, and decide I was too much hard work to be around, because I wasn't perfect. What would I do then? I couldn't let him get to me. It would just hurt too much when he eventually left.

He returned a couple of minutes later. He must have choked the food down. He grinned at me when he re-entered the room, and I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face. Suddenly, I didn't care about trying to keep him at arm's length. I'd already begun to count on him being right in the seat next to me, despite my brain warning me that I shouldn't.

He took his seat and took my hand again, and it was like he hadn't left.

And then I felt like I was on display again.

I eyed the shadows under my parent's eyes, and I sighed.

"You should all go home and sleep," I said.

"Ah, we're fine," Mom said, while Dad shook his head.

"No," Paul said simply. I rolled my eyes.

"Staring at me can't be very engaging. Seriously. I would feel better if I knew you were sleeping," I said quietly, pleadingly, eyeing my parent's tired faces again. They glanced at each other. "You can come back the minute you wake up," I said, taking advantage of their lack of protests. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"Are you sure? And you'll be OK?" Mom fretted.

"The hospital is full of doctors. I'll be fine."

They both looked like they didn't want to leave, but my parents stood up and gathered themselves. I looked at Paul. He had one eyebrow raised, as though he was daring me to ask him to leave. I frowned at him.

"I was talking to you, as well," I said.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Paul…"

"You've already gotten rid of me once. You aren't going to manage it again."

My parents were oblivious to this exchange, and took turns in kissing my forehead, saying goodbye. My mom shot a glance at Paul, and looked like she was about to protest to him staying, but my dad dragged her away. I watched them leave, hoping they'd look better in the morning. Less dead. I then turned my attention back to Paul.

"Really. You should go home and sleep."

"Don't start. I'm staying here."

"Is there any point in arguing with you?"

"Nope." He smiled at me. I sighed. Looked like I wasn't going to get rid of him anytime soon.

We didn't say much after that. He continued to gaze at me, and at some point I fell back asleep.

* * *

When I woke the next morning, I could hear voices outside the door of my room. I recognised my mother and father's voices, accompanied by a man's voice I didn't know. They were talking about medical stuff again, and I immediately tuned out. That was probably the doctor, the best one in the hospital; the one they wanted. I didn't want to hear how they were going to attempt to fix me.

I turned my attention to Paul. He was asleep. He was leaning forward in his chair again, his arms stretched out, my hand in both of his. His head was resting on his arms, and his eyes were closed. I watched him for a moment, shaking my head. He should have gone home to sleep. What would his parents be thinking now? What was he really doing, in fairness? Spending the whole night by my bedside, holding my hand. He really wasn't obligated. I couldn't figure him out.

The door opened, and I automatically looked over to see who it was. My breath caught. It was a doctor, quite obviously, going by the white coat and the files and folders in his hands, but it was a _gorgeous_ doctor. He didn't look like he should be working here at all - he should have been on a runway somewhere.

"Hello," he said, smiling warmly at me. "Leona Lynch?"

I nodded, a little dazed.

"I'm Dr Carlisle Cullen. It's a -"

He broke off suddenly, having just noticed Paul, and stared in his direction, looking completely surprised. I followed his gaze, confused, and was just in time to see Paul's eyes fly open. He breathed in through his nose again, and then made a face, his head snapping up.

He and the doctor stared at each other for a moment, while I felt increasingly more confused. Did they know each other? My confusion only got worse when Paul stood up suddenly, his expression a mixture of horror and fury.


	4. Chapter 4

**Yikes. Sorry for the wait for this one. I only have excuses... soz. I'll update soon, I promise. **

**I don't really have an extensive knowledge of all things medicine, so you know. I watch Grey's Anatomy, and that's about it. So if you notice any massive, gaping, obvious flaws in any medical mumbo jumbo I attempt, just roll your eyes. Thanks!**

**And thanks for the reviews. You're all so cool. lurrrve xxxx**

* * *

_Chapter Four_

**Paul's POV**

_No way in hell._

I stared at the leech in front of me, trying to control the violent tremors that threatened to take me over. I couldn't lose control. My nostrils were burning with the sickly sweet scent of vampire, and all I could think of was how there was no way in hell I was letting him work on Leona. I didn't trust him. No way. He could just turn around and walk back out.

He stared back at me, his eyes wide with surprise. Other than that, he looked quite serene. I almost snorted at the white coat. How pathetic. I wondered if his patients had any idea that he'd love to suck their blood almost as much as he wanted to save their life.

I was aware of Leona looking from me to him confusedly. I had no intention of telling her anything; not the fact he was a vampire, or that I was a werewolf. I figured she had enough to deal with at the moment. I didn't want to overload her with information. Especially completely incomprehensible facts. To her, at least.

There was an long, uneasy pause. I racked my brains, but I couldn't think of anything to say. Neither could anyone else, it seemed. The tense atmosphere was suddenly shattered as Leona's parents entered the room. They were oblivious to it, approaching Leona to hold her hand.

"This is the doctor we were telling you about, Lee. He's going to help make you better," her mother said, her tone soothing, probably reading the agitation on her face wrong. I knew Leona was confused and worried as to why I was on my feet, shaking slightly, and staring at the doctor hostilely. I wanted to comfort her, but at that moment, I didn't know what to do first. Get the leech out? Or tell Leona everything was OK?

I decided it was best not to raise her parent's suspicions. The last thing I needed was them watching my every move. They were already unsure of me. I didn't want to make Leona's life any more difficult than it already was by having her parents in her ears warning her about me. I didn't want to be a problem for this family. I wanted to blend in, become a figure they got so used to seeing that they didn't really see me anymore.

"Do you mind if I talk to you for a moment, _Doctor_?" I asked, working extremely hard to keep my tone calm. I couldn't help the subtle sarcasm at the end of the sentence though.

"Of course," the bloodsucker said politely, and led the way out of the room. I followed, clenching my fists in frustration. I didn't like this complication. Why did the stupid leech have to be here? Why Leona?

"Paul?"

It took everything I had to pretend I hadn't heard her. I'd answer her questions once I got rid of this vampire, and I knew she would be safe. I had already failed her so far. We were supposed to keep our imprints safe, and all I had succeeded in doing was letting her get herself into a car accident, rendering her paralysed. I was not going to sit back this time and put her at further risk by encouraging a vampire to work on her.

I closed the door of Leona's room behind me, and wheeled to face the leech.

"What are you doing here?" I spat, forcing myself to lower the tone of my voice so they wouldn't be able to overhear.

"I work here," he said calmly.

I glared at him. "I know _that_. I'm actually not stupid. I mean, what are you doing _here_? Go find another patient to drink dry, because you're not coming near Leona."

The bloodsucker chuckled. "Paul, right? Do you not think I would be out of a job if every one of my patients died due to blood loss?"

"Are you being smart with me?" I demanded. Maybe I was being irrational and immature, but I didn't need this extra stress.

He sighed. "Look, I'm not here to hurt her. I'm here to _help_ her. Surely you can put whatever animosity you still have against me behind you, in the interests of Leona?" he asked.

I struggled with myself. What if he really was the best doctor in the hospital? What if he could find a way to make her better?

The leech put a hand on my shoulder, and I winced at the glacial touch.

"You imprinted on her?" he asked. I nodded, and he looked fascinated. "I'll help her," he said reassuringly. I wondered whether or not I was insane.

I agreed.

* * *

**Leona's POV**

I watched Paul and Dr Cullen re-enter the room, my eyes narrowed. Something was going on. I wasn't sure if Paul was going to tell me exactly what it was or not. I mean, we barely knew each other, and I couldn't expect him to tell me everything, after all. I tried to catch his eyes. He didn't look at me, his gaze never leaving the doctor's, watching his every move. He didn't take his usual seat either, like I expected. He leaned against the wall across from the foot of my bed, folding his arms across his chest.

I didn't listen to whatever the doctor was saying. He and my mother and father were talking, but it sounded like Japanese to me. Dr Cullen was gesturing his charts and fiddling with X-rays, and I didn't hear a word. I was focussed on Paul. It was only when he spoke that I was jolted out of my trance, and words rushed into my ears.

"So it's possible?" Paul asked, and I watched a small light of hope ignite in his eyes. My heart began to speed up, thrumming quickly against my ribs. I tried to catch up with the conversation, and make out like I had been listening. Anything that made Paul hopeful was worth listening to.

"The chance of it happening is very small, so small it barely counts as a chance. But miracles happen. It could be possible, yes," Dr Cullen answered him.

"What could be possible?" I asked, completely lost. All attention turned to me, and I was immediately self-conscious.

"You might be able to regain the use of your legs, darling," Mom said, her eyes shining with tears.

"But there is a greater chance that you won't," Dr Cullen said, gently, throwing an anxious glance at my mother. He was probably worried she was getting ahead of herself. I understood what he was saying. There was probably only a two percent chance I'd regain the feeling in my legs. A very small chance. I wouldn't allow myself to hope for it, because I would just end up disappointed.

My eyes flickered onto Paul of their own accord, and he was gazing at me, that small light of hope in his eyes still visible. Pain stabbed at my heart.

What if nothing happened, and I was still paralysed? What would happen to that spark of hope, then? Was this hope the only thing keeping him here? Were my legs really such a big issue for him? Was that all he thought about now, when he thought of me? Would he give up on me, if I was still disabled at the end of it all?

I did my best impression of a smile at Dr Cullen in thanks. I was sinking again, sinking into depression.

I wasn't going to hope. I was already resigned to the fact I couldn't walk, and that I was doomed to a wheelchair. A tiny chance that I might be able to walk again was not going to make me hope, and only inevitably destroy me.

I could only see a wheelchair at the end of the tunnel.

But, if by some miracle, I _could_ walk again…

Well, I wasn't going to complain.

But I wasn't going to hope, either.

* * *

My parents and Dr Cullen left the room after a while; I had no idea why. Maybe they were going to discuss something, maybe they were going to talk about things that I wasn't required to know about, like the cost of my spinal surgery or the chances of me dying on the operating table. I knew I was being morbid, but I didn't want to be positive anymore. I just wanted it to all be over. I wanted to go home.

Paul took his usual seat, and took my hand. I gazed at him. His face was so familiar to me already, like I had been looking at him all my life. He half-smiled at me, and I could still see that small ray of hope in his eyes, all that was keeping him here with me.

"Are you OK?" he asked, and kissed my hand. My cold skin burned when his lips touched it, and continued to burn long afterwards.

I shrugged, not really sure of the answer. He frowned worriedly, and I searched for something to distract both of us.

"What was that, earlier?" I asked, hesitantly.

"What was what?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Whatever _that_ was, with the doctor," I clarified, and his expression changed again. "You looked like you wanted to set him on fire."

He coughed suddenly, sounding like he was hiding a laugh. I waited.

"It was nothing. I don't know what you're talking about," he said eventually.

"It didn't look like nothing," I pressed, but he just shrugged.

"Just wanted to talk to him, that's all," he said, his tone closing the matter. I was irritated. And it was stupid. He had no obligation to tell me anything. I sighed, frustrated, but I gave up.

Paul brought up the spinal surgery, and asked me how I felt about it. In truth, I was terrified at the thought of it, but I tried to sound nonchalant. I didn't want to worry him. I didn't want him worrying that I wasn't coping. Because I was. I was getting through everything, hour by hour. I could handle this.

I mean, what more could life throw at me to try and get me down? It had taken my legs from me. And one of my friends. I had been through more in the space of a few days than I had ever hoped to go through in my life. I had managed not to break so far. Maybe I was stronger than I had realised.

"Everything is going to be OK, you know that, right?" Paul said, squeezing my hand. I smiled at him. He was right, wasn't he? In ten years time, I would look back on now and see it as a life-changing experience. A small chill swept through me, as I wondered… in ten years time, would I be in a wheelchair? Would it be a solid part of my life, so much that I barely noticed it anymore? Would I be… _used_ to it?

How could that ever be possible? I knew now, that when I saw my wheelchair for the first time, all I was going to be able to think of was the reasons I was forced to use it. Alcohol. Stupidity. I knew that they would be all I thought of every single second in that wheelchair.

How could I get used to it? How could I get _used_ to being paralysed?

My breathing was already a little laboured when the knock on the door signalled someone's arrival, and my new visitor was the trigger to my panic attack.

It was Georgia.

In a wheelchair.

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't _breathe_.

"Leona? _Leona_!" Paul's tone was urgent and panicky and I didn't want to worry him - I never wanted to worry him - but I _needed_ him. I couldn't breathe. I squeezed his hand, gasping for non-existent air.

"Leona, look at me, _look at me_," Paul said desperately, and told hold of my face, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Breathe," he whispered, his eyes fierce. But I could see his fear. I couldn't look away from his intense gaze, even if I wanted to, and I took a deep breath, filling my lungs to the max. I breathed out shakily, and my reflexes tried to deny me taking another breath, but I fought them. It was just the panic, I told myself. It wasn't real. I could breathe, and I would breathe.

Paul breathed with me, and the panic slowly ebbed away.

I was almost embarrassed. I had suffered from panic attacks ever since I was little, but they happened very irregularly, and there was no pattern. It wasn't just anything that set me off. It usually happened when I was overwhelmed by something, and that didn't happen often. But afterwards, I always felt apologetic, because it seriously freaked people out.

I could tell Paul was now severely freaked out.

"Leona?"

I finally turned my head away from Paul's at Georgia's voice. Her hands covered half her face, and her eyes were filled with tears. She was heavily bandaged, and she looked empty, almost dead. It frightened me a little; Georgia was so full of life, all the time.

"Are you alright? I didn't mean to scare you," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. She had seen me panic before, and she hated it. It always upset her, and I was apologetic again. She had enough to be upset about at this moment, I figured.

"I'm sorry," I said, to both of them. Paul had seated himself back in his chair, but he was shaking slightly. I must have scared the life out of him. He didn't react, but he just continued to watch me closely, holding my hand in both of his. I was distracted by Georgia bursting into tears.

"Oh, Leona," she sobbed. "It's all my fault."

"Don't," I begged, my eyes filling up also.

"I shouldn't have driven that car… I killed Darren… and you, you're…oh…" she trailed off into incoherency, holding her face in her hands. I stretched my hand out to her, frustrated. If I could just move my legs, I would be able to move down the bed and reach her. But I couldn't move my legs. Of course I couldn't.

She placed both her hands on the wheels and pushed herself closer to the bed, and took my hand. It was damp with tears, wrapped in a white bandage. A wire leading from her arm was attached to the IV on the side of the wheelchair. I had one too, but for some reason, Georgia's disturbed me more than mine had.

"Why are you in a wheelchair?" I asked, before I could stop myself. Please, don't let her be paralysed too.

Georgia's eyes were sympathetic through their tears, and I hated it.

"They didn't even want to let me out of the bed," she said, hiccupping slightly. "They said I should take it easy, 'cos I'm just out of surgery, but I'm fine. I had to see you, see that you were OK," she said, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"I'm OK," I told her, but no one believed me. I didn't even believe myself.

Georgia shook, her crying turning worse than before. "They… told… me… you're… paralysed," she gasped, and I nodded, almost unable to confirm it. I didn't want to. It was obvious she was a mess over this, obvious she was blaming herself for everything. But I couldn't sugar-coat the facts for her, to make her feel better, as much as I wanted to. I mean, I could hardly tell her I was going to walk again, could I? I wanted to tell her that I would be OK, but that would be a lie, and she'd hate me for it.

"This is all my fault," Georgia sobbed, squeezing my hand almost as tightly as Paul was. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I don't blame you," I said, and I was glad I could say it, because I _didn't_ blame her. "I blame myself."

In my peripheral vision I could see Paul begin to shake his head furiously, but I didn't look at him. It _was_ all _my_ fault. I could have so easily prevented all of this.

I watched Georgia cry, feeling so close to breaking down myself. I wished there was a way to make it all better, or make it all go away, preferably. I wished there was something I could say to her, to make her feel better.

But the only thing worse next to being paralysed, was being the person who paralysed her best friend.

It wasn't something that could be fixed with apologies, or tears. I didn't want her to blame herself, but I knew that she would, every time she saw me in my wheelchair.

I couldn't stop my tears. I hated this.

I cried quietly to myself, while Georgia sobbed noisily. Paul eyes were fixed on my hand, the one held in both of his, his face expressionless. He didn't say anything, or move, but he helped me without meaning to. He'd always be there to hold my hand. Wouldn't he? I had the feeling that I meant so much to him, more than I could understand, and he would be there to hold my hand, and breathe for me when I needed him to.

These thoughts calmed me down, and I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand. Georgia calmed down too, not long afterwards.

"They might prosecute me, you know," she said, her eyes dead and haunted. "For drink driving, and manslaughter. How could they think I meant to kill Darren…?" Her face crumpled, and she looked away from me.

My heart split into little pieces, and I was filled with horror.

I really didn't know which one of us had it worse, right now.

A nurse came in to take Georgia away. "Come on, dear," she said. "You need to sleep and rest so your body can recover. Worry about all this when you're better."

Georgia threw her a filthy look, wiping her eyes, but didn't protest. She grabbed my hand again before she left.

"I'm sorry," she said vehemently. "You're my best friend, and I love you. I'm so sorry I've done this." She was crying again.

"It's OK, Georgia," I said, "I love you too." I couldn't bear for her to beat herself up over this. She wasn't to blame. She was too drunk to know what she was doing. This was my fault. I was sober. I should have thought. And now my best friend was like this, an empty shell, blaming herself for hurting the people she loved.

She was wheeled towards the door, but turned her head to catch my eye before she left.

"Suzanne said she'd come and visit you soon," she added, making an attempt at a smile.

"Have you heard from Harvey at all?" I asked, and my heart sank as she shook her head.

"Suzanne said he won't answer his phone. We don't know where he is."

I nodded. I had a fair idea of where he was. Locked in his room, blaring his heavy metal music. It was his escape. He was so sensitive, and whenever he had had a hard time from his bullies, or whenever he just needed to forget about something that upset him, he hid from the world, hid in his favourite music. The news about me and Georgia must have nearly killed him. I wanted to hug him, and tell him it was alright, but I had to give him time. I had to let him escape for a while.

If only I had an escape.

I hoped Harvey would be in to see me soon.

Georgia left, and I felt completely drained. Everything we had had before this was completely screwed up, everything that was once so normal and comforting and OK. Because of that accident, we were all left in this big huge mess.

Georgia could be facing jail. Darren was dead. I was paralysed. Everyone who knew us was affected by the crash, too - family, friends… we had all lost so much that we would never be able to get back.

But, as I registered Paul's eyes on my face, I realised something. I had lost my ability to control my legs, but I had found something, too. I found Paul. Paul found me. Maybe I could live without everything that I had lost, if I had Paul.


	5. Chapter 5

**Heya. Thanks so much for the reviews. I know yeah, it's sad and kinda depressin' (but they're hardly going to be singing, are they?), but hopefully this chapter makes up for it. It's lovely and cute and fluffy, and I hope you enjoy it. The next chapter is the last one (aww). Thanks for the support! lurrve xox**

**Songs for this chapter: _Far Away_, by Nickelback, and _Miracle_, by Paramore.**

_I'm not going/Coz I've been waiting for a miracle/And I'm not leaving/I won't let you/Let you give up on a miracle/When it might save you..._

* * *

_Chapter Five_

It was an hour before I was due to go into surgery, and I was scared.

Scared of so much. Scared of what might happen as I lay there, unconscious on the operating table. Scared for the people waiting for me to come out of surgery, of how they might cope. Scared of what might be different, or what might be the same, when I woke up again.

I had convinced my parents to go for lunch. I was worried about them. All they insisted on doing was staying in the room with me, and it wasn't healthy. They were worrying about me, torturing themselves, imagining what ifs and maybes. They looked exhausted, they looked empty, and I was so sick of watching the people around me suffer, when I couldn't do a thing to help them.

Paul had been visibly shaken by my panic attack, and now whenever I took a breath that wasn't quite even, he jumped and half-rose out of his seat. I was sick of telling him to relax. I felt guilty, watching the mix of relief and anxiety on his face.

He was with me now. He rarely left. Sometimes I managed to coax him into getting some food, but he never left for long. He slept by my bed, holding my hand. I told him it was ridiculous and unnecessary, but he disagreed. I asked him what must his parents and friends think, and he said he didn't care. I was more touched than he could know, that he had abandoned it all to stay with me.

But I still knew he'd have to leave eventually, to return to his life, and I was still waiting for that moment, when he would sigh and get up and walk out of the door and never come back.

What if he wasn't there when I woke up, after the surgery? What would I do then? I depended on him so much, even though perhaps I shouldn't have.

And I was scared.

"It's going to be OK, Leona," he said soothingly. He wasn't stupid. He could see my fidgeting, and see the apprehension in my eyes. He knew how I felt.

"Is it?" I asked, before I could stop myself. I hated the pleading tone in my voice.

"Of course it will," he said fiercely. "Nothing will change. Except for the fact you'll be better. And I'll be right next to your bed when you wake up. Count on that."

He looked so sincere. I gazed at him sadly for a moment.

"Why?" I asked, quietly. "Why are you still here? Why haven't you left yet?"

His eyes widened and he stared at me, shocked. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, and he continued to gaze at me. I became transfixed by his eyes, almost forgetting that I was waiting for an answer.

He was silent for ages, and then his eyes softened.

"Because there isn't anyone else more important to me than you," he said softly.

My lower lip trembled, and I pressed my lips together, looking away from him. I stared straight ahead of me. My heart ached to believe him. I so badly wanted to believe I was as important to him as he had said. Because I needed him, more than I wanted to admit, more than I probably should. But I didn't care. I _needed_ him.

My eyes returned to his face and locked with his eyes again. I couldn't really tell what he was thinking or feeling. I wasn't sure what _I_ was thinking or feeling. We just gazed at each other for an immeasurable moment.

And then something in the atmosphere seemed to change.

My breathing had started to become a little uneven. Because he had moved closer. I was sure of it. I could feel his breath blow gently on my face, and he hadn't been that close before. He was moving towards me slowly, centimetre by agonising centimetre. I couldn't look away from his eyes, which were getting nearer and nearer. I was mesmerised.

The sound of the machinery around me and the noises of the nurses in the hall had become muffled, like I was underwater, and I couldn't hear anything clearly, except for my heartbeat. It pounded so loudly it was almost like it was beating in my ears, yet I couldn't even hear the heart monitor picking up on it.

My brain was scrambled. Fuzzy. Only one thought was battling its way through the haze. He was going to kiss me.

It was proven correct about a second later.

Paul gently pressed his lips against mine, and my eyes closed. His mouth burned mine, but it was a good kind of burning. His hands seized my face, holding it gently, scorching the skin. My hands, even though I hadn't told them to, were gripping his shoulders, attempting to pull him even closer to me.

I totally forgot who I was. I forgot that I was Leona, the paralysed, stupid teenager. I forgot that I was about to go into surgery. I forgot about all the people like my parents and Georgia and Harvey, and I forgot about their pain, and about my pain...

All I could think was… Paul.

My skin burned. He kissed me so gently, like I was fragile, like I could break so easily. Like we had both discovered.

He pulled away after what seemed like forever, and we met each other's eyes for an uncertain second, gauging the other's reaction.

Paul grinned suddenly, his eyes flashing wickedly. I blushed.

"I hope you believe me now," he said, his tone lightly teasing. I smiled at him shyly.

I guess it wouldn't hurt to take a chance this time? To just believe him? I had already decided to give up on hope, to give up on faith, to give up on a happy ending. But Paul was different. He was my miracle. I couldn't give up on this miracle.

He had appeared from nowhere, and he hadn't left my life since then. He had to care about me, or he would have disappeared long ago. I wanted to believe in him. And I would.

I wasn't about to give up on this miracle, if it would save me.

People bustled in suddenly. Oh yeah. Surgery.

Paul watched them prepare me worriedly, his eyes flickering to my face every few seconds. I didn't look away from him. He was giving me strength, because he was the number one reason to get through this operation, to get better. So I could see him again.

I didn't see or hear anything but him. I vaguely remembered being manoeuvred away on a bed with wheels, seeing my parents in the hall and telling them I'd be fine, seeing Dr Cullen and accepting his reassurances, seeing the lights on the ceiling above me flashing by as I was wheeled to my surgery…

The only thing I could remember clearly was my fingers slipping out of Paul's grip.

And his whisper of "I love you" in my ear.

* * *

**Paul's POV**

'_Cos with you, I'd withstand_

_All of hell to hold your hand_

The Nickelback song, those lyrics in particular, were on constant repeat in my head, as I paced around the waiting room. They couldn't hold more truth for me now. I never related to them, ever, as much I did now.

I was in hell.

Because what if something went wrong? What if they couldn't save her? What if I had to leave the hospital, because my imprint was lying under a white sheet in a cold, sterile morgue, and there was nothing I could do to save her? What the hell would I do then?

I promised her I would be there to hold her hand when she woke up. And she had to wake up. If she didn't…

She had to wake up. She was everything to me now.

I'd survive every second of this hell, just so I could hold her hand at the end of it all.

I'd wait. Wait for this to be over, for her to wake up and tell me she loved me too.

* * *

**Leona's POV**

I was floating. I couldn't feel my body, couldn't really feel any sense of being anywhere. But that was OK. It was better than only feeling half of me, the other half numb and unresponsive. I was content to float here, wherever I was.

I could hear voices. I couldn't hear the words, but I could hear the pitch, the sounds, the break in between the sentences. I wanted to know who they were. My awareness struggled through my drifting, and reminded me that they were all waiting for me to wake up.

Mom. Dad. Georgia. Harvey, Suzanne, everyone else. Paul.

Paul. Paul who loved me. Paul wanted me to wake up, I knew that.

I decided then that I had floated for long enough. I wanted to let them all know I was OK. I wasn't in any pain. I was fine, and they didn't have to worry anymore. And so I waited.

But nothing happened. I was still floating. I still couldn't feel anything. I didn't know how to tell my eyes to open. I waited, wondering if it would change now that I was more aware, but my body wasn't co-operating.

My mind grew sharper, more alert, as I lay there. I could make out the conversation now, recognise the voices. It was my parents, their voices a mix of relief and stress, and the velvety smooth voice of Dr Cullen.

"The operation went well, no complications," he was saying.

"She's going to be OK, then?" my father asked.

"Yes… we won't be able to tell if it means that she will be able to walk again. We'll have to wait for Leona to come around. But, even if nothing happens, it doesn't mean it won't ever. These things take time, and sometimes they need lots of it."

"Yes, we understand that," my mom said, sounding teary. "We just want her to be OK."

"She is," Dr Cullen assured her. "She will be."

I tuned the conversation out. I still wasn't hopeful. I was already resigned to my wheelchair. I wouldn't be hopeful. But I just couldn't bear to hear how hopeful my parents obviously were. They didn't want to believe their only daughter was wheelchair bound, because no one even warned them that that was how my life could turn out. They had had dreams for my future… college, a dream job, my own house, a respectable husband and a couple of grandchildren for them to dote on. Absolutely nowhere in these dreams for me did they see a wheelchair present.

I drifted for a while, and the voices soon faded away. There was nothing but silence, and I listened to it. I continued to float, continued to drift, until another voice dragged me away from the haze.

Paul's voice.

I was now desperate to open my eyes, to wake, so I could see him, and speak to him and tell him that I was OK. I knew he would be more worried than my parents were, because for whatever incomprehensible reason that existed, he loved me. He was never going to leave my side, and that doubtful little part of me was gone, and I truly believed and trusted that he was not going to leave me. I wanted to tell him that I hadn't left him, and that I was never going to either.

But nothing happened, yet again. I was still floating. But I could hear him, and I listened closely.

"You probably can't hear me at all," he was saying, sounding self-conscious. I wanted to give him some sign that I could hear him, but I still couldn't feel anything. I waited anxiously, listening to the silence, waiting for him to speak again.

"So…" He exhaled loudly. "I feel like a right tool."

I wanted to laugh. But nothing happened.

"But, there's no one here but you to witness it, so I might as well keep on making a fool of myself…"

He fell silent then. I wished I could see his face. It was a while before he spoke again, and I counted every second.

"This wasn't how it was supposed to happen," he sighed, and his chair creaked. Had he stood up, perhaps? I listened, forcing my ears to pick up the smallest sound, and my theory was confirmed. I listened to his soft footsteps pacing up and down the room.

"You know, my whole life altered the day you bumped into me on the beach. Before that, I was having a really bad day. Everyone was irritating me. I was in such a bad mood. Embry really wanted to go to that beach party and pick up girls… I had no intention of going at all, but he dragged me with him. I was having quite possibly the worst evening ever, watching Embry surrounded by half-dressed females, listening to him bragging at the top of his voice… I was really in the mood for punching someone. We were finally about to leave, when you bumped into me.

"'Sorry' was the first thing you ever said to me, you know," he said, his tone changing into a more sombre one. "Maybe it was a sign. Kind of set the tone for the rest of our relationship. You, always apologising for being stupid enough to get into a car with a drunk driver. Me, always apologising for letting you go and get yourself hurt, when I wanted to stay with you for the rest of the night, more than anything…"

I wanted to frown, to portray my confusion in some way, and to also tell him he was overanalysing. He must have thought about this too much.

"My heart stopped when I saw you for the first time," he said lowly, and I had to strain to hear him. "Everything that had irritated me, everything that was driving me crazy… it just all _vanished_, became irrelevant, meaningless. I didn't care about anything else, because none of it _mattered_ to me anymore. From that first second, you have been my first and only priority."

I was hypnotised by the sound of his voice.

"But, I had to be clever about it," he continued. "I had to act normal, like my whole world hadn't just flipped on me. I couldn't announce to you then and there that you were my imprint, my other half, my whole _world_, because you would think I was insane. I knew I had to do it the right way, the human way. Once you trusted me, then I could tell you everything and you would believe me and then I wouldn't have to pretend any longer. At least, that was how I imagined it. Maybe it wouldn't have been quite so easy.

"But you know, I do underestimate you sometimes. You're so strong, stronger than I thought. I expected this to totally destroy you, but you're surviving. And I can tell you're not going to let this accident destroy you at all."

He didn't get it. It was him that made me strong, him that gave me the will to survive. The hours before he had burst into my hospital room, shouting and roaring my name, I had been struggling. He had changed my perspective on everything, when I started to depend on him. I quickly refocused back on his voice as he continued with his confession. I didn't understand everything he was saying, and I was hoping he'd give me some more clues. I wanted to understand.

"I was delighted when you said you'd go to lunch with me. Actually, that's a lie. I was _overjoyed_, _ecstatic_… whatever. I was going to treat you to a lunch we'd never forget. I had it all planned in my head. A picnic on the beach, with a stereo and a load of sandwiches with two much butter in them. I'd make a load of stupid jokes, and you'd pretend to find them funny…" I could hear the smile in his voice, and I wished I could smile too.

"I arrived at your house too early. No one was home, so I thought maybe you'd gone out and got delayed, so I hung around and waited. The thought that you would stand me up, or give me the wrong address, didn't occur to me. The impression I got of you at the bonfire told me that you wouldn't do things like that. I waited and waited, and you never came home."

I didn't want to hear this. This was the way my life would have gone, if I had gotten home safely. Paul would have been waiting at my house to take me out. He had been waiting at my house for a Leona who had never come home. She still wasn't home. She was lying here in a hospital bed, comfortably numb thanks to anaesthetic, paralysed, different. She wasn't the same girl that Paul had met at the bonfire. But yet he still wanted Leona, whoever she was now.

"I got extremely worried, eventually. I was imagining all types of horrors. Like maybe you were lying inside, stabbed to death by an intruder who broke in to steal a TV. Or maybe you had gotten into a car accident. Funnily enough, even though I imagined it, I didn't think it would actually be true."

If I had been awake and able to see his face, I might have been crying. His voice sounded so upset and desolate, and I couldn't stand it.

"I crossed to the neighbour's house, to make sure you actually lived there. They told me your mother had called them and said you had gotten into an accident, and that they were minding your cat. They probably thought I was psycho - I just turned around and ran straight to the hospital, looking for you.

"When you told me you were paralysed… I felt like I had my world in my hands, but it had been given to me, damaged. I was so _angry_, with everything. I couldn't believe something like this could _happen_, to me, to you. You hadn't done a thing to deserve this, Leona. I couldn't stand the fact that you were hurt, so irreparably, and I couldn't do a single thing for you. I mean… when you're living as part of the supernatural, you believe anything is possible."

He'd lost me there. The brooding tone of his voice was confusing me too.

"But then when something like this happens… you realise you can be a freaking _werewolf_, but you still don't have the power to stop car crashes from happening, and that you don't have the power to keep the one you love completely safe, completely well. I'm so sorry I failed. I shouldn't have been so convinced that reality couldn't get in the way."

Maybe I wasn't lucid after all. Maybe this was a dream. It didn't make any sense. Did he just say he was a werewolf? My imagination was never _that_ wild.

"And I don't even _love_ you," Paul corrected himself, and my heart twisted with pain. I didn't like this dream. "I freaking _adore_ you," he continued, and my heart stopped twisting. "I'm _infatuated_ with you, and everything you do renders me _stupid_, because you freaking _amaze_ me. You don't even know how much."

Oh.

"If the guys could see me now," he said suddenly, laughing. "They'd call me a right patsy."

I listened to the sound of his laughter, a sound so wonderfully familiar, yet one I didn't hear often enough. I hadn't given him enough reasons to laugh. I wanted to keep him laughing. I wanted to make him happy, make him laugh. Because I adored him too. He amazed me too, because he was _here_, defying all logic.

I suddenly realised something. I didn't need to walk again - I didn't need that miracle. I needed _Paul_, _my_ miracle. One miracle was enough for me, and Paul was all I needed. Bring on the wheelchair.

"I'm the angry one," he said, in a low tone, capturing my full attention once again. "I'm the angry one, the one with the temper, the short fuse. The one they like to wind up when they feel like a fight. The one who normally runs away from these types of situations, away from the emotions and tears. They'd make me run miles.

"But I can't run away from you. I don't want to. I might as well be handcuffed to your bloody side. I don't want to leave you. I won't. I can't. You're my entire world."

He was quiet for a minute, thinking. I waited, my heart swollen, my mind swirling.

"You're like _my_ wheelchair," he mused. "Without it, I fall."


	6. Chapter 6

**Phew. Well, here we go, the last chapter. Sorry it took ages to update, this was kinda hard to write. But I really hope you enjoy it, and do let me know what you thought of the story as a whole, I'd love to hear all thoughts and opinions. Thank you millions to everyone who stuck with me from the very first chapter, and just thanks for the support - you're all so ultra-cool. Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing, and enjoy this! lurrrve xox :D**

* * *

_Chapter Six_

Three months later…

I opened my eyes, and the room was blurred. I stretched my arm out and fumbled for my glasses on the bedside table. My fingers connected with them and I sat up slowly, sliding them on.

My room was bright with the morning sunshine, a rarity for Forks, and it made me smile. Everything always seemed so much brighter on a sunny day. When it rained, I always felt depressed.

I pulled myself into a sitting position, and leaned against the headboard. I had about half an hour until my mother came bustling in and started her daily routine of fussing over me. I picked up my favourite novel, which had been discarded on the floor last night, and proceeded to read where I had left off. The binding was destroyed and the pages were crumpled; proof I had read it way too many times.

I couldn't concentrate on it, though. I found myself staring around the room, thinking, daydreaming. So I put the book down and just contented myself to listen to my own thoughts.

I was back home now. I was glad. I had grown to resent the hospital, with its sterile white walls and clinical smell and fussy nurses and disgusting food. I had never been more relieved to get home, to the familiar place I had grown up in, all my memories etched into the walls.

I wasn't bitter. I could have hated it here too. I mean, the last time I was here, I had the full use of my legs, and it wasn't even something I thought about. I had taken being able to walk for granted. But I was glad to know that I wasn't bitter about it, because that would have made things a lot more difficult. I had just accepted everything the best I could.

I didn't go back to school, and I had no plans on doing so. I didn't want it. I didn't want the stares, the whispers, the pity, the popularity. I would be That Girl In The Wheelchair. I didn't want to be labelled. Plus, I had never really fit in at school anyway, and my disability wasn't going to help matters. I didn't want the attention. I knew I'd just be paranoid all day every day, and staying at home sounded much more appealing to me.

My dad had hired a private tutor for me, so I wasn't behind in schoolwork. I liked my tutor, and I had managed to catch up on everything I missed while in hospital.

The last time I had seen the majority of people from school was at Darren's funeral.

It was horrible. One of the worst days of my life.

My biology partner stood in front of me, stuttering and mumbling his sympathies, as I sat in my chair, my hands clasped on top of my dead legs. The girl I sat next to in English came over to me and struck up a conversation, acting as though nothing was different, as though I wasn't in a wheelchair. That is, until she mentioned her feet were killing her. She clapped her hand over her mouth as soon as she said it, and came over all awkward and apologetic. I hadn't even picked up on it.

But it carried on like that for the rest of the day, the people I knew stumbling over words and treating me like I had somehow changed. I told people over and over again that I was OK, desperately trying to get the emphasis off me. I wanted to tell them it was Darren's funeral, not mine.

That, on top of my grief for Darren, was bad enough. But then there was Georgia. Oh God, Georgia.

I didn't even recognise her anymore. The Georgia I once knew had disintegrated.

She turned up at the funeral, having been released from hospital a few weeks earlier, like me. Darren's mother threw a fit, blaming her for his death and demanding that she stay away from them all. There was quite a large commotion, but eventually Darren's dad decided that Georgia could stay and say goodbye to him.

She had bravely limped up to the grave, supported by her crutches, to trickle a handful of soil over the coffin.

She had made a full recovery, with the exception of her shattered ankle, which had yet to heal. But she was far from well. Her brother had walked in on her trying to slit her wrists soon after leaving hospital. She said she couldn't take the guilt anymore, and she just wanted to end it all. Thank God her brother had found her when he did.

So she was in therapy now, and she was making progress. She was no longer suicidal, but I was still worried about her. She had her court case coming up soon, and she was adamant on pleading guilty to manslaughter, which was probably going to land her in jail.

I still kept in touch with her, but I didn't know her anymore. She was completely changed. It seemed that our conversation in the hospital, when she had come to visit me, was like my farewell to my best friend. I missed that Georgia.

All because of alcohol. I wanted something to blame, and that was what I had decided on. So many people died because of it, so many people's lives were changed forever because of it, and I wanted to blame it, because it was being abused by people and too many mistakes were being made. I was never going to drink a drop of it, ever.

Julie had made a full recovery. She rang me sometimes, to see how Georgia was getting along, to see how I was. I thought it was incredibly stupid, but she confessed to me that she felt terrible sometimes from being able to walk away from that crash with nothing more than a few broken ribs, while Darren, Georgia and I had lost so much. I told her that she was the lucky one, and this should teach her not to take anymore stupid risks like that. She still had her life, her freedom, her legs. She should appreciate them all, because we couldn't.

Harvey came to see me, not long after I woke from my spinal surgery. He said he was sorry he took so long to arrive, and I told him I was just glad he had decided to come. He had visited me every day after that, with a story he had cut out of a newspaper or magazine or a book that he found. A paralysed woman had climbed a mountain. A paralysed guy had won medals in sport, despite his wheelchair. They were all survivor stories, about inspirational people who were also without legs.

It was cheesy, and I wanted to tell him it was unnecessary, but it made me feel hopeful. Hearing things like that proved to me that my life was not over because of this accident, and that if I wanted to, I could do extraordinary things too.

Maybe I would. For now though, I was concentrating on adapting to this new life. Because it wasn't the same life. There was no way I could have come home and have things back the way they were, and I was getting used to the changes.

My bedroom had been moved downstairs. I couldn't get up the stairs, obviously, and my parents couldn't afford a stair lift, so it had been the easiest thing to do. I was OK with it, although I missed the pretty view from my bedroom window.

My mother, naturally fussy before, had become almost unbearable. I rarely got a moment to myself. When I recovered from surgery, my legs were still as numb as ever. My mom found it hard to accept the fact I was bound to a wheelchair. She cried a lot, and hugged me a lot. But she was OK now; well, as OK as she could be under the circumstances. We were both helping each other through this.

I would never forget the time we just sobbed together on the bathroom floor. It was forever imprinted in my mind. I didn't want her to help me go to the bathroom or have a shower, wanting to keep as much dignity as I possibly could. But all I succeeded in doing was falling out of the chair and knocking the breath out of myself. That, combined with my frustration, triggered a panic attack, and my mother found my on the floor, gasping futilely, the chair on its side.

It scared both of us, and was quite possibly the worst moment of my whole life. Well, it was up there with the worst of them, anyway.

After that, she had become unbearably helpful, running across the room to retrieve something for me so I wouldn't have to manoeuvre the wheelchair anywhere, and things like that. It didn't help with my frustration, and I had to remind myself constantly that she was only trying to help.

That blasted wheelchair.

It made me feel like I was a baby in a pram. I was pushed everywhere. I hated it. It was horrible; a navy blue seat (which I guessed would be hugely uncomfortable if I was in any way able to feel it), massive silver wheels, an annoying fiddly footstep at the bottom of it, for my useless, unresponsive feet. I really hated it. I hated what it reminded me of every day - my mistakes. But I grit my teeth and got on with it, because I had no other choice.

Another memory I would never be able to forget was the time it was first introduced to me. I was ready to leave the hospital, and they wheeled it in to me. I took one look, and it frightened me so much I had another panic attack. A really bad one. Of course, my mother and the nurse panicked too, although not to the same extent, and fluttered around me, unhelpful and useless.

But then Paul pushed them out of the way, and breathed with me.

Ah, Paul.

I hadn't managed to get rid of him yet. He hadn't left yet. He was still with me. My miracle.

He didn't like the wheelchair either. Whenever he came over, he lifted me out of it. I didn't mind; in fact, I looked forward to leaving the horrible thing every day. I'd sit on his lap, usually, and I would rest my face on his bare, scorching chest, and he would hold me and chat away to me and make jokes and ask me half a million times if I was OK. I always was, because he was with me.

If we felt the urge to visit another part of the house, he would carry me there. One extremely hot arm would support my torso, while the other supported my legs. I would stare sadly at the hand that I couldn't feel, the warm hand that gripped my numb legs, and I wished that I could feel it. Feel the touch, feel the warmth. But of course I couldn't.

He was with me almost all the time. He left when I was reluctantly falling asleep in front of him, and when I woke up, he was usually in the kitchen raiding the fridge. My parents adored him now, because they saw how happy he made me. How my face lit up when he entered the room, or even when they spoke his name. It was pathetic, really, but I couldn't find it in me to care.

I loved him. More than anything.

He was there, holding my hand when I woke up fully after the surgery, when I finally shook off the anaesthetic. He smiled at me, and I wasn't sure what made me say it.

"I love you too. And I adore you too, and I'm infatuated with you too, and you amaze me, too. If you weren't here with me now, I don't know if I could have ever opened my eyes."

His mouth had fallen open, and his own eyes widened. He was silent for ages. I wasn't sure if I should have told him that I had heard everything he had said while he thought I was out of it. It had been an incredibly personal confession, and I didn't know how much he would have said to my face. I was really glad I had heard it, though.

I could tell he wanted to discuss, and clarify, and explain, but I didn't want to hear it. I had heard what he said, and that was it as far as I was concerned. I didn't need to hear the facts. All I cared about was the fact he was there with me. Nothing else mattered.

So I shook my head at him, and he gaped at me for a long moment. But then he grinned and kissed me, and I found I really didn't care about all those things he had said, that I hadn't completely understood. I didn't need to understand. I just needed _him_.

We hadn't talked about it since that moment. Neither of us made any effort to bring it up, and that suited us both just fine. I think he was scared of my reaction, which was why he didn't bring it up himself. He didn't have to be scared. I didn't care what he _was_, what he could _do_. All I wanted was _him_, and everything that went with him didn't matter to me.

My door opened suddenly, and my mother bustled in.

"Good morning, love," she said, smiling at me.

"Hi," I said, still lost in thoughts of Paul.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, approaching me to brush my hair off my face.

"Fine," I said. I made a face as she grabbed my chair from the corner of the room and wheeled it closer to me.

"Do you want to get up?" she asked, and I shook my head.

"No, not yet," I said. "I want to wait for Paul."

My mother sighed and nodded. I always wanted to wait for Paul. I think maybe she was feeling a bit left out sometimes, but I certainly didn't feel guilty. Every time she helped me in and out of that wheelchair, I felt absolutely horrible. Because I let her down. I got into a car with a drunk driver, even though she told me never to do that, and I let her down. I felt horrible for disobeying her every single day.

We were all paying the price for my stupidity, now.

Mom started chatting away about what was on the TV tonight and what the neighbours were planning on turning the attic into and how the nice weather wasn't supposed to last, and I tuned out. I thought about Paul some more. I ran my fingers through the gigantic mane which was my hair, trying to tame it to some proportion before he arrived. I knew it was already a pointless exercise; my hair refused to be tamed.

The doorbell chimed, and my face lit up.

My mother bustled out of the room to get the door, and I waited, incredibly frustrated at the fact I couldn't just hop out of bed and run and get the door myself.

"Hey, Lee," Paul said, strolling into my room and closing the door. And there he was, my personal miracle. Shirtless, gorgeous, grinning.

"Hello," I said, beaming up at him.

He approached my bed, nudging the wheelchair out of the way distastefully as he did so.

"God, I want to set that thing on fire," he muttered, as he did every single day. I always replied with the same answer.

"I'll provide the gasoline."

He sat on the edge of my bed next to me, and kissed me gently.

"How are you today?" he asked, running his fingers through my hair.

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes, of course I am."

I was always fine when he was with me.

"Good," he said, satisfied. He swung his legs up onto the bed and lay down next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders. I placed my head on his shoulder and we stayed like that for a long moment. I had noticed that we didn't always need to say anything. It was never awkward between us. We sat in the long comfortable silence, never feeling the urge to say anything at all, just revelling in each other's company.

After a while, he spoke.

"Leona," he said slowly, sounding hesitant.

"What?"

"I would really like to talk to you about something."

"Go ahead," I said, looking up at his face, curious. He was chewing on his bottom lip, and he took a deep breath.

"Well… I haven't brought this up before now, because I didn't really think it was necessary. I wanted you to recover first and foremost, and _that_ was the most important thing to me. But you're OK now. I can't really say that you've recovered, because we both know," he said quietly, intertwining his fingers with mine and gazing into my eyes, "that you are as recovered as you'll ever be."

I knew what he meant. I knew what he was going to say.

"I want to talk about… what you heard… in the hospital…" He kept hesitating, and I wondered if he was nervous. Or afraid. Or both.

"We don't have to," I said quickly, not wanting him to feel obligated to talk about it. I mean, maybe I heard things he hadn't meant me to hear, but I didn't regret hearing them. It had been nice, to get inside his head, even without him realising.

"No, we do," he disagreed, his voice growing stronger with every word. He was gaining courage from somewhere. "There's stuff I need to explain to you."

I waited, trying not to fidget.

"Can you explain to me first though, what you heard, and what you made of it?" he asked, scrutinising me as he spoke.

I thought about it briefly; I had already thought about his words so many times already, and I somehow already knew what I was going to say.

"I'm not sure what exactly you are. A boy, a werewolf, a miracle - I don't know. And I don't care. Whatever it is that is _supernatural_ about you, doesn't affect the way I feel about you in the slightest. All that matters to me is that you are _here_, and you helped me through the darkest days I ever had to live through. I doubt I would have survived at all if it weren't for you. I heard words that I didn't really understand, like _imprint_, but you know what? I don't need to understand them. I don't need to know exactly what they mean. It doesn't make a difference to me, _what_ you are, and what you can _do_. I love you for who you _are_, even though that sounds incredibly cheesy," I blushed, looking down at our intertwined hands.

"You're really quite incredible, you know that?" Paul inquired, and I looked up to see him grinning at me. My blush only got worse.

"Shush," I admonished.

"But you are," he insisted. "Any normal girl would be freaking out right now."

"You could hardly call me normal, could you?" I said, a little sadly. "Normal girls can walk. Normal girls can-"

"Leona, don't start," he interrupted. "I don't want to hear all that dejected crap coming out of your mouth. You are normal. You were just in a bad accident, but it hasn't made you into someone else. You're still the sweet, gorgeous, _strong_ girl that I bumped into on the beach, and there was no way something such as paralysis was ever going to keep me away from you, or change the way I felt about you.

"I loved you from the very first second," he said simply. "You're my imprint. That means there's nobody else but you for me. If you think I would rather be with some boring, ordinary, _normal_ girl, instead of you, then you're insane. And you should have realised how much you meant to me when I burst into the hospital, roaring and screaming for you."

I thought my face might burst into flames, but my heart was singing.

"You know, I was lying in that bed thinking about you, and I was thinking about how you weren't going to like me because I couldn't stand," I said, feeling stupid for saying it out loud, because it sounded stupid even to me, but I needed to say it.

Paul looked visibly shocked. "How could you think something like that?" he demanded. "I don't love you for your _body_, and what it can or can't do. I love you for who you _are_," he quoted me, his eyes burning with sincerity. "Even if you had three eyes, I'd probably still be just as infatuated."

I blushed. I think I believed him. What on earth had I ever done to deserve him?

But was he completely certain of what he was getting himself in for? I couldn't _stand_, which meant there was so much else that I could do. He would need to be my legs for me, and surely that was too much for me to ask of him?

"Realistically, Paul, I'm probably going to be useless forever. You're going to have to run around after me all the time - literally," I said sadly.

"Leona, I do not care," he said vehemently. "If you want to go to the other end of the world, I will run all the way there for you. And I won't stop for breath."

I froze, as I suddenly realised something.

Oh my God.

"Leona?" he asked, anxiously. "Are you OK? Did you hear what I just said? Why are you looking at me like that…?" With every word, he looked more and more nervous. My expression was still frozen on my face.

I couldn't believe it.

I started to cry.

"Leona," Paul said urgently, squeezing my hand. "What's wrong? Tell me!"

"Paul," I said, wiping at my face with shaking hands. "I can move my toe."

He froze. "What did you just say?"

"I can move my toe!" I repeated, and I pulled the covers off my feet so that he could see. We both watched, wide eyed, as the big toe on my left foot wiggled. I could move it. I could feel the air on it; the rest of my foot, along with my other foot were as numb and dead as they always were, but I could move this toe.

"You can move your toe!" Paul said, looking up at me with shining, awestruck eyes.

"I can move my toe!" I said, laughing and crying at the same time.

"_You can move your toe_!" Paul yelled joyously, and he started kissing me vigorously; my cheek, my forehead, my nose, my lips. "Oh my God. You're moving your toe!"

We both just kept repeating it to each other, over and over until it began to sink in.

There was hope. Maybe I would never walk again, but just the fact that I could _feel_ something, something I had resigned myself to never experiencing again. It was the best feeling in the world.

Maybe I wasn't completely broken. Maybe there was a chance I could mend.

I didn't know what the future held for me, but that moment right there, wrapped up in Paul's arms, both of us high with giddy relief, I had never felt better in all my life.

Paul was going to stand by me, even though I couldn't stand myself.

And it didn't matter, that I was paralysed, that I was in a wheelchair, that I had been stupid and reckless and that I had thrown so much away by not _thinking_, and it didn't matter that the rest of my life would be spent with people running around after me, and it didn't matter that I would always be known as That Girl In The Wheelchair, the paralysed, stupid Leona.

All I needed was Paul.

As long as I had him, I was OK.

And I was just Leona.

_The end._


End file.
